A Brother's Love
by Money-My Life
Summary: In London, 1666, Arthur Kirkland also known as the United Kingdom of England and Northern Ireland was captured by a group of occult fanatics due to being suspected as a witch. Trapped, tortured, starved than burnt at the stake, what would his brothers, Scotland, Wales and Ireland do when they found him traumatized and hurt? Three shot. (Last chapter on my AO3 account under Neunte)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia Axis Power, it belongs to its rightful owner whose name I forgot the spelling. **

**Merry Christmas! Hope my fic don't ruin a perfectly happy Christmas for you.**

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"Ya' all fools." He spat in disgust. His golden hair shone lightly in the pale moonlight as his emerald green eyes burned with hate, and oddly betrayal and hurt. His arms and body hurt from the torture he went through, the thick rope that was tied around his midsection was suffocating-almost similar to a corset but covering less area. His blonde hair is greasy and dirty, matted with blood and water. Bruises decorated his sunken pale face like in a macabre painting, under his eyes were dark bags from stress.

"Burn the witch…?" He scoffed, "How many times do I have to tell you that I am _not._" His authoritative voice cut through the shouts and chants for his death. Death of the _witch_, he thought darkly.

He felt the pain for when they started throwing sticks and stones at him, stabbing and injuring him with whatever they have in hand. It all left him bleeding and hurt, only for the wounds to regenerate in a minute.

"Quit your yammering _witch_." The man at the front smirked arrogantly, while emphasizing on the last word to mock the 'witch' that is tied to the stake. "As if a being who lived for millennials could be no witch."

The 'witch' glared at the man, he was the one that had given information of him to those…fanatics, his previous butler.

It is the year 1666, the number of witch trials were declining but had not removed itself from the people's mind, completely.

_It was a beautiful Monday morning, and Arthur was having his steamy cup of Earl Grey before a large noise resounded in the mansion. It was as if someone- or a group of people are trying to break into the mansion by force._

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

_It seemed that they are using a log, how unrefined, Arthur thought._

_Arthur placed down his cup of tea and stood up warily. What was happening? He immediately closed his eyes to concentrate, sensing his servants rushing around trying to…escape. And there were some, no, a whole gang of villagers breaking into the mansion…_

_He knew that this is going to happen somehow as his mansion is located near the countryside but this is ridiculous._

_His hand hovered over his rapier which is hidden under his coat, wondering it was needed or not._

_He quickly turned around and ran through a secret passage just before the door to his office was broke down, a large group of men charged in. Searching for the blonde haired noble, they looked in each and every corner of the room but there was no noble in sight._

_One of the men observed the wall behind the grand mahogany table, it felt hollow. As if one had carved into it…His eyes widened and ran towards the direction of the wall, or perhaps, a secret passage._

_Pushing against where it caved in, the door to the secret passage groaned and slid open to reveal a long flight of spiraling staircase. He immediately called his comrades, shouting for them to follow him. Dark shadows swirled around the men threateningly, but they paid no heed as the rushed down the stairs._

_As for Arthur, he ran and ran down the flight of cemented stairs. His shoes created a 'click clack' sound every time it made contact with the floor. His expensive black coat billowed against the wind, the white patterns standing out. His once perfectly-combed air is now disheveled and windswept. _

_His eyebrows are knitted together in worry and slight fear when he heard the door to his secret passage creak open. Followed by the yelling of the man that had-apparently-found it._

_He breathing is short and fast, a ball of sweat rolled down his face. He could hear his heartbeat in his ear, and in the background are the shouting of the men._

_Ah…where is it…? He fumbled around the folds of his clothes, trying to find the metal key that he always have on his person. Just. Where. Is. It?!_

_When he felt something hard and cold against hip and felt rather stupid. Shaking his head, he unclasped the chain from his trousers and unlocked the other door._

_He twisted the key in the key hole but the locking bar did not loosen its hold on the shackle. He then threw the key onto the floor in frustration._

_His eyes widened in fear when he heard the sound of a shoe against the surface of the floor. __A man huffed and smirked, "Nowhere to run now…you witch."_

_"__Witch…?!' Arthur thought, his hand quickly went to the hilt of his rapier. His hand gripped the golden grip of the rapier, unsheathing it as silently as possible. __Before he could act, they got hold of his limbs and forced him down. "Let me go! You barbarian!" He shouted. One of them brought in a coil of thick rope._

_"__Just what are you…!" A piece of cloth was forced into his mouth-thus gagging him. His wrists were tied together and so were his ankle._

_The last thing he witnessed was the smirking face of his butler before he was knocked unconscious and hoisted up._

"I am not." He denied weakly.

"How about you just admit it? Is not the time to be stubborn,_ Lord Kirkland_." Arthur looked down at the man. He had made a big, big mistake adopting him. Disgusting…

"You disgusting…" Arthur started, but was then cut off by the men.

"Enough chit-chattering! We cannot let the witch live on any longer. Burn him!" They started chanting. "Burn him. Burn the witch!"

Some lit the fire, and he could feel the heat just right underneath his soles. The fire licked at his bare feet, burning away the skin. He screamed in pain, his sound hoarse, towards the sky as the fire slowly consumed his feet. The ripped hem of his black trousers caught fire, the orange fire became more magnificent, and like a blooming flower it slowly coiled around his shin.

He could not cry, as his tears had long dried away. He could only scream, scream till his throat is bleeding and used. His screamed pierced through the chants for the death of the witch like a banshee's predicting a death which ironically, is his.

His scream soon diminished into pathetic half-choked out sobs and pleads for what is unknown. His legs burnt, his skin crumbled and burnt, turning black, red and bloody. He screamed loudly in pain, the few weak-hearted women in houses whimpered started praying, for the man's suffering to be over.

The men stepped back several steps due to the nauseating scent of burnt flesh, like charcoal but somehow…sweet. Whether it is a hallucination or illusion created by their sick mind or whatever, they cheered as the fire consumed nearly half of the body.

Arthur knew he is going to be revived again, perhaps in several days, or even mere hours. He did not care anymore.

Briefly, he remembered a familiar image of a person he once knew. It is fuzzy, but the bright red hair still stood out prominently.

Tears streaked down his cheeks and his mouth moved to form a word yet nothing came out, before even his head was consumed by the wild fire.

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**This is meant to be a threeshot. I will update the next chapter soon enough. I wonder if I got Arthur in character...anyway, reviews please. Critiques are nice too but flamer will be ignored. **

**Extra: The Great London Fire that swept through the central parts of London happened during Sunday, 2 September to Wednesday, 5 September 1666. It consumed 13, 200 houses, 87 parish churches, St Paul Cathedral and most of the buildings of the City authorities. The fire started from a bakery in Pudding Lane and spread rapidly across the city of London.**

**More information in Wikipedia...what? I don't have books.**


	2. Chapter 2

At the same night, a great fire, burning bright and high, raged through the capital city of England, London. The city was swallowed in bright orange flames, towering over the city like a great demon readying to crash down on the city. The fire was so tall, so tall that it almost had the moon covered.

Down in the city, screams resounded, things were run over, children were crying and people are running from the fire. A lone child stared fearfully at the great fire, greedily swallowing up over half of the city, before he disappeared under the debris like many others.

People tried to dodge the falling wood and burning objects left and right, screaming and crying for help. To whom? No one would answer them, not one could hear them neither were the skies. The usual rain clouds too abandoned them, instead of pouring rain, they flew by idly.

The children's cries were smothered by their frantic mothers, who are running, running to where? The exit which were far from them? Much too far for their weak limbs to run to. They might not make it. The river, perhaps? In their desperate, fear - clouded minds, they did what their instinct called for them to do. All their little bits of intelligence were shoved to the back of their minds, hidden, pushed back by fear.

They ran from the fire, yet looking back at the same time in curiosity and wonder. The sight was mesmerizing, beautiful even. If not for the stench of burning corpse suturing the air and the crumbling buildings that are burnt darker than black.

They ran, ran and ran. All were instinct, instinct to save themselves and they loved ones blared in their mind.

They stepped on jagged stones, their clothes and shoes torn or missing but they did not stop running.

Humans are weak creatures.

They react on their instinct to survive, to shy away from potential danger, to ignore the festering corruption to preserve their normalcy.

And that, is how the survivors got through the four days of fire.

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In Scotland, a red haired man jolted awake. Something is wrong. Very wrong. There was a sense of dread that settled in his chest, persistently tugging at his heart. Something is so very wrong. He felt that he should do something. He should find something, or rather someone but he disregarded it.

But the worry was still there, flittering around his mind, making him feel nauseous and chasing away him appetite. He gritted his teeth as he ignored it all. He is feeling very jumpy today, worrying and constantly looking South in an attempt to get a peek at his… brother.

'Of all people!' He thought, frustrated. He huffed and grumbled as he nibbled on the piece of bread. He set down the piece of bread on the ceramic plate when he realized that he is by no means hungry. He felt that, as if he were to eat anymore he might just puke. 'Ridiculous…' He thought, before stepping out of his cottage after shrugging on a coat.

He went down to town to get his usual newspaper from a store down the street. Old, dirty and worn down but the prices are good and... well, he prefered it there. The moment he saw the headlines in the newspaper, worry and desperation gripped him like an angry demon.

There, in bold yet elegant letters it wrote.

**The Great Fire of England. Destruction of many homes. Number of Death's Unknown.**

Simply throwing some coins onto the cashier, Scotland ran. Ran faster than the wind and when he sure he was far enough from civilization he jumped and disappeared in a flash of bright white light.

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Near Wales, the man, who is apparently the nation of Scotland appeared in an alleyway without any disturbance except for the slight change in wind but no more than that. Even the cats that prowled along the grimy alleyway paid any mind to him.

Something like this was a piece of cake for nations like him. They could blend into the crowd without anyone noticing their presence or they could even call the whole country's attention to themselves with a mere flick of a finger. And of course, their pseudo-immortality. It is something like a curse, but yet at the same time it is a blessing.

But enough of their country nonsense, right now he has to find his two other brothers, Wales and Northern Ireland. He would need their help to find England, as it would not do for him to scout the whole United Kingdom himself.

The only thing to worry about now is if they will put aside their grudge for England and help him or not.

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Meanwhile, in an unknown place. A blonde haired man laid unconscious on the sandy beach. The scorching Sun is shining down on his back as he laid face down on the fine sand. His once perfectly white dress shirt is now torn and dirty, caked in mud and barely clinging on his form leaving much to be imagined. His once expensive black trousers are now useless as they had become mere scraps that reached barely past his knees. But the most eye-catching is the crimson that is oozing from his wound into the once- pale yellow sand, turning it a reddish brown.

He has mostly healed thanks to his country's current economic situation, but the angry red gaping wound on his abdomen simply won't heal.

As if God had listened to his silent plea for help, he sent a lone female to find him, wounded and bleeding, on the sandy beach. She gasped dramatically and immediately ran back to wherever place she came from to call for help. But not that there is any need to hurry, nations don't die as long as their country remain standing.

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On the other hand, in front of Wales' house, Scotland was slowly but steadily getting more and more angry at his brother, Wales, who ever since he had told him that he requested his aid to find England, had been blabbering excuses after excuses to not help him and in extension England/

"Oh no you...ye pumpin' bas! He is yer pumpin' brother or did ye coincidentally forgoat that fact? Ah didnae raise ye brat tae become such...such fuckers!" Scotland yelled at Wales, anger clouding his mind as he slowly reverted to his slang. But then again his anger is quite justified, and so is Wales' dislike of England.

"A wnaethoch chi anghofio am y berthynas rhwng y ddau ohonom! Mae pob rhyfeloedd...nid yw'n amlwg ddigon?"* Wales shouted back in his own language, Welsh and immediately slammed his door shut.

Scotland groaned and tugged at his fiery hair in frustration, "What am I going to do now...? Even Ireland refused to help. England... you really should be more in control of your monarch, look at what they've done to your reputation...!" Scotland sighed, and jumped, disappearing in a flash of white light.

As soon as Scotland disappeared, the door was slammed opened as Wales snarled at nothing in particular. "Now to find that idiot brother of mine...I swear I would not ever help him again," * He said and jumped, at the same time extending his senses, trying to find his brother England. Nations could not normally be sensed as they tend to hide their aura instinctually to avoid detection. But nations with enough experience can still sense it, such as Ireland.

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Three weeks. Three bloody weeks of pain and hallucinations of torture. He has finally recovered enough to not feel any more extreme pain and to move. But he is not sure if he even wanted to move, or even fo anything at all. He just felt empty, like there is no use in doing anything. Everything is reasonless now.

Perhaps it is due to the fire, or even the witch trial but he is very visibly shaken. Sure, those people had found him had managed to nurture him back to health, in fact he felt much better than even before the fire but there is no motivation, no drive in him anymore. He is numb and isn't sure why is he still hurting.

Being betrayed and burnt at a stake after being tortured for weeks does not guarantee an immediate recovery, after all.

After he had recovered enough to actually listen and think, another shocking thing came crashing into his face.

And it came in the form of a head of orange hair and a deceivingly happy face.

"Ireland..." He breathed out. It is the first time he had spoken ever since coming to this village and his throat ached just by speaking.

"Why..." He asked after a while.

"Why? You are in my territory, after all."

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**Reviews please. Like seriously, they are my only source of motivation to continue writing.**

"A wnaethoch chi anghofio am y berthynas rhwng y ddau ohonom! Mae pob rhyfeloedd...nid yw'n amlwg ddigon?"- Did you forget about the relationship between the two of us? All those wars...is it not clear enough yet?


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